


Stronger

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 03:34:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14011293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: A quiet reflective conversation shows Greg how Mycroft perceives things - and gives him a chance to change Mycroft's mind.





	Stronger

“I can’t believe Sherlock actually came,” Greg said. “I know it’s his birthday, but still.” A deep slow chuckle. “Sherlock voluntarily at the Diogenes Club.”

“Doctor Watson is a good influence on my brother,” Mycroft acknowledged. He drank from his snifter, watching the firelight catch the brandy within. They were the last two remaining in the private room; the hour was late, and wine at dinner was being followed by an excellent brandy.

“I never would have imagined Sherlock to be so…” Greg trailed off. The brandy in his system warmed him and lowered his defences at once; recklessly he allowed his eyes to linger on long fingers swirling a brandy glass. Foolish ideas, he told himself.

“Happy.” Mycroft’s voice was decisive. “He is happy.”

Greg watched Mycroft’s face deep in contemplation. Years of covert observation had taught him the subtleties of Mycroft’s expressions, and he was fairly sure Mycroft was content. It was as close to happy as Greg had ever seen him, but this time there was something different to it. There was satisfaction, but this was deeper, more personal. Certainly Mycroft’s speculative gaze had settled on him more often this evening, though there was an edge of sadness that Greg didn’t fully understand.

“Was there something you wanted, Detective Inspector?” Mycroft asked, his eyes on the fire.

“There was one thing, but now there’s two,” Greg replied. When Mycroft lifted one eyebrow, he said, “There’s something different about you tonight.”

“That is not a question,” Mycroft replied.

“Fine. What is it that’s different?” Greg asked, the liquor loosening his tongue.

Mycroft considered the question. “I’m not sure,” he answered slowly. Greg wondered how many people had heard such an admission from Mycroft. As he watched, he could see Mycroft musing on the problem. “I believe there are several factors influencing my changed demenour.” Glancing up, he met Greg’s eyes. “I will continue to think on it while you ask your other question.”

“Why do you call me Detective Inspector?” Greg asked. He knew it was cheeky but this was a remarkable evening. It was worth the risk.

“It is your title.”

“But it’s not my name,” Greg replied.

There was a long silence, until Mycroft finally replied, “If you wish it, I will certainly call you Gregory.”

“Greg,” Greg corrected.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. Greg recognised the whorl of desire in his belly. Usually, he ignored it. Tonight, he embraced it, allowing it to curl through his body, giving him courage.

Another few moments passed. Greg often found these silences with Mycroft awkward, but tonight the time rolled smoothly by. Greg wondered what Mycroft was thinking about. Was he still considering the “factors influencing his changed demenour”?

In the other wing chair, Mycroft shifted restlessly before standing and walking to the fire. “I believe I have produced a short list of the factors most influential on my demenour this evening.”

Greg grinned. “Of course you have,” he murmured. Levering himself out of the chair proved slightly difficult, but he managed by leaving the brandy on the side table. It was only a few steps to stand beside Mycroft, watching the fire pop. Their shoulders almost touched. Almost.

“Most of the factors are personal,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Okay,” Greg said. He wondered what Mycroft would share, if anything. _Be honest,_ a voice whispered, _you want it all._ Greg ignored it.

“Sherlock is one.” Mycroft swallowed the last of his brandy and placed the glass on the mantle. “His happiness is unexpected. It…changes things.”

“The dynamic between you,” Greg stated.

“Among other things,” allowed Mycroft. Greg waited again for him to lead the conversation.

“Certainly the alcohol has had its influence,” Mycroft went on.

“Booze doesn’t often help when you’ve got things on your mind,” Greg agreed. This conversation was fragile as gossamer and he didn’t want to damage it with careless words.

“You are also influential, I believe,” Mycroft said, his tone reflective. “Your company is…comforting.” The word was clumsy on his lips.

Greg was stunned at the sentiment, and his heart lifted at the possibility that maybe… “Thank you,” he whispered. Mycroft’s words gave him courage, but still he hesitated before adding, “You said Sherlock’s situation changed other things.” Mycroft stood very still for a long time; Greg wondered if he was doing the mind palace thing Sherlock sometimes favoured.

“It changed…me,” Mycroft said. “Sherlock’s emotions have not dampened his abilities.”

It took Greg a few moments to put the two statements together. “You thought your mind would be less…if…?” A slight incline of his head was Mycroft’s only acknowledgement. “But seeing Sherlock has made you doubt it.” Another tilt of the head. Greg went on, choosing his words carefully. “Do you value your abilities so much?”

Mycroft’s mouth twisted into a bitter shape. “Emotions have proven less valuable in my experience.”

Greg nodded, heart thumping. “So, these emotions you push away.” He felt Mycroft stiffen beside him. “Sherlock has flourished, sharing himself with John,” Greg said quietly. He turned to look at Mycroft, watching his face. “What if emotion makes you stronger?”

Mycroft blinked once then turned to Greg. His face was a picture of astonishment. “Stronger?” he whispered.

“Stronger,” Greg repeated. He stepped closer, watching Mycroft’s eyes grow wider. “Two can be stronger, Mycroft.”

Watching him struggle with the new idea, Greg raised his hand, laying it gently on Mycroft’s cheek. He felt the swallow, saw the wide eyes link to his own.

“I…find myself drawn to you,” Mycroft whispered.

Greg smiled. “Me too,” he said, watching the wonder bloom anew in Mycroft’s face. He allowed his eyes to drop to Mycroft’s mouth, lingering before they rose again.

“Oh,” whispered Mycroft, and Greg leaned forward, their mouths brushing once before he moved away a little. Mycroft whimpered in protest, pressing into him, chasing the kiss. Hands on Greg’s arms and a firm mouth against his own, and Greg felt the whorl in his belly flourish.

***

As the fire burned low, Mycroft’s arms loosened from around Greg’s neck. “Perhaps you’re right,” he murmured.

“You mean Sherlock was right?” Greg teased.

“He need never know, surely,” winced Mycroft.

“Well, probably,” agreed Greg. “Emotions aren’t so terrible, are they?”

“No,” granted Mycroft. “It is possible they do have their value.”


End file.
